Read The Last Place She'd Look Online
Authors: Arlene Schindler
Freshly showered and tingling with popularity, I cooed, “Sure, what time?”
“Will 11 work for you? I hope you don't have lunch plans.”
“11 is fine. I'm still full from dinner,” I said, smiling to myself, knowing full well I was talking about the course after the main meal. The minute we both hung up I hurricaned through my apartment, cleaning, hiding clutter, the fire drill of rearranging so it looked like a home and not a cage.
Jessica arrived on time, all smiles, smelling as delicious as the pastries she brought. After breakfast I showed her around the apartment. When we got to the bedroom, she took my hand and pulled me to the bed, proceeding to make out with me. Long, passionate kisses, reminiscent of just hours ago—I felt like the prom queen of my own passion-a-thon weekend. Confident and buoyed by all the attention, I undressed her. She raced to unhook my bra. As she nibbled my nipples, the scent of her hair and skin was intoxicating. We raced to be naked and explore each other's bodies. I felt graceful and young, new and hopeful—only positive feelings. I've never known myself to be this optimistic. I was exhilarated by passion, fueled by affection, nurtured by the attention. Was this still safe and sane behavior? Was it the weekend or was it Jessica? I dove into her with every life-affirming breath of my vibrantly beating heart.
Kissing Jessica tasted like sanity. Each embrace and loving stroke felt as though it was coming from a caring place. Her skin was a whipped cream dream, unflawed by scars or bruises. She was sweet and kind, and affectionate on a bed, unlike TC who said beds are places for folding laundry and hiding bills underneath.
“Slow down your brain,” I told myself, realizing I'd only spent mere hours with her, but feeling heady with hope like after my first school dance. As soon as we were spent, I got up and brought back chilled glasses of water to revive our parched selves.
“You're a delight,” she said. “I've thought about you all these weeks away. Now my imagination gets to be in the real world…on real skin,” she said, while tracing my arm with her finger, then following the line with her lips.
The phone rang. I dreaded who it might be. So, I didn't answer it. I just wrapped my arms around Jessica and closed my eyes.
When I began selling stories in the self-help world, the moment I felt I was really good at it was when I sold my first piece to
Cosmopolitan Magazine
, or
Cosmo
. The doyen of women helping women in the self-help world was then editor-in-chief Helen Gurley Brown. I admired her career. She coined the phrase “Mouseburger”, defining her readers as women who are ''not prepossessing, not pretty, don't have a particularly high IQ, a decent education, good family background, or other noticeable assets.'' If they apply themselves seriously according to her rules, Miss Brown said, such women could have ''deep love, true friends, money, fame, satisfying days and nights.'' All you need to compensate for your modest endowments is ''street smarts,'' good intuition, a degree of selfishness and drive. She did it with these qualities, she argues, and her ''mouseburger'' readers could too.
Some days in my past, I resembled the mouseburger persona. But not today, no way! Overnight I went from lonely and alone to adored and devoured, by more than one person, more than one team. I'm saying this mainly for myself, because I'm so stunned and amazed by my newfound appeal. I don't think I've changed significantly to warrant such attention. Maybe the lottery of loneliness just picked my ticket to have a new kind of life. Whatever the reason, I'm ready for more.
At a time in life where I thought I'd be overlooked or unloved right through to my years in an assisted living facility, my newfound popularity, desirability, and ambisexuality has rocketed my self-esteem to the moon and beyond.
As soon as Jessica kissed me goodbye, I raced to my computer, eager to fire off story pitches about finding love and desirability:
15 ways to be more desirable
8 tips to keep him coming back
Facebook flirtations: love at your fingertips
Date till you drop: the do's and don'ts of seeing more than one person
12 lies that lovers tell, and how not to get caught in them
I guess any of my editors could see what was going on in my mind and in my life. Meanwhile, Derrick called later that day, Saturday afternoon. I told him I was working. He asked if we could have an early dinner as he had a 7 a.m. flight tomorrow. This felt safe and sane to me. Or as I said to myself, “Sometimes dinner is just dinner. A girl has to eat.”
When I got to his hotel room, it turned out he'd planned dinner with room service. The silver trays had already arrived with a chilled bottle of champagne. A warm bubble bath was running. Two robes were being heated on the towel warmer in the luxurious bathroom.
I'd originally envisioned the evening as something public and speedy. Charmed by his efforts, I found this all terribly romantic. But I knew dinner with bubbly and bubbles with a man who was catching a plane in 12 hours was fleeting. I believed this whole adventure was his orchestrated fantasy, and I was the living, breathing prop of his castle in the sky. It felt yummy and hedonistic for me to play along. I felt important, respected, and appreciated. After a warm hello that included an engulfing hug, passionate smooching, and bra unhooking, I undressed to slide into the tub, while Derrick popped the champagne cork.
Creating a Romantic Night:
This would be a good story to write about, I thought to myself, as he handed me a chilled champagne flute.
Then Derrick slipped into the relaxing warm water. His assertiveness turned to shyness as the water soothed our anxieties and the realization of who, what, and where sank in. He spoke softly and gently, “My time with you has changed my life.”
“Me too,” I added, feeling champagne bubbles teasing my tongue while trying to fashion the soap bubbles to camouflage the fleshier parts of my arms and thighs.
Derrick was now amorous and passionate, nibbling on my ears and neck. “You make me feel alive and manly,” he whispered. While pouring more champagne he said, “This weekend has filled me with amazing memories.”
“Me too,” I whispered in return. But I was starting to feel anxious about spending so much time together, concerned he might be overreacting or clingy. “You need a good night's sleep to catch an early flight.”
“This weekend would be perfect if I could sleep and dream with you in my arms before flying back to my life.”
How could I say no, gotta go, to a request like that? We toweled off and got into bed. We were both very tired, and fell asleep.
Around 4:30 a.m. I heard Derrick rustling around, packing. I grabbed my stuff and went into the bathroom. After washing my face, I put my underwear back on.
As I dressed, I realized my phone, sitting on the bathroom sink, was vibrating. Jessica had left me a message, “Where are you? I have a breakfast surprise for you. Call me, so I can tell you where to meet me at 10 a.m. tomorrow.”
I texted back, “Researching a story, call you at nine a.m. tomorrow.” The second I turned off my phone, a surge of guilt raced through me. Derrick was more life experience and article fodder than someone I could be serious about, right? Was I going to spend the day with Jessica after a night with Derrick and four hours sleep?
I'll sleep on Monday.
I dropped Derrick off for his plane promptly at six a.m. He gave me a peck on the cheek and whispered, “I have so much to thank you for.”
“Me too. Safe trip.” I drove away feeling exhilarated and tired with every breath. I thought it was my heightened self-esteem that made being with Jessica so effortless. As I drove through Los Angeles Sunday morning, before the sun was up, while the city was still asleep, I was one of few cars on La Cienega Boulevard. Watching as the sun crept through the clouds to commence the morning, bliss surged through me. I experienced a new sensation, a sense of not feeling alone.
Back home by 6:45 I debated about sleeping till eight a.m. I set two alarms and jumped into bed. After what seemed like 10 minutes later, the alarms roused me from deep sleep. I dressed, ready to meet Jessica, dialing her number at exactly nine a.m.
“Good morning, my pretty,” she answered the phone. “Can you meet me at 10 this morning? I have an open house today and need to set up ahead of time. It would be great if you could meet me there, help out, and I'd show you around…sort of a rehearsal for prospective buyers.”
“Sure,” I said, still feeling shell-shocked and monosyllabic. I wrote down the address and met Jessica at a cozy cottage in Laurel Canyon. When I arrived, the front door was open. Jessica was in the kitchen, dressed in a suit, putting mounds of cookie dough on a baking tray.
“Glad you're here,” she said smiling. After kissing my cheek, she grabbed a finger full of raw cookie dough and held it to my lips, “Want some?” she offered.
“Always,” I answered, opening my mouth, so I could taste the sweetness.
“We bake cookies, so the fresh-baked smell wafts through the house, creating a scent of hominess.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel, then gently grabbed my arm. “Let me show you around,” she said, modulated, rehearsing her professional spiel. “On our right we have the dining room with a picture window and view of the garden…cherry blossoms, a shady tree, great for outdoor entertaining. Up these stairs which have the original 1940s carved banisters, you'll find three bedrooms which are also suitable to be home offices or media rooms.”
“Lovely patter, I'd buy what you're selling,” I offered, as she took my hand and walked me from one room to another, pointing out the Anderson windows, skylights, and other amenities.
Just as we were leaving the master bedroom, which had a fireplace and floral patterns on the bedspread and drapes, she turned to me and said, “I'd love to sell ya something.” Jessica reached for me, circled my waist with her arm, and kissed my mouth, passionately. The next thing I knew, I was on the bed and she was taking my pants off.
“Aren't you supposed to be working?” I asked, titillated by the moment.
“I'm working on you…it takes the edge off of open house jitters.”
I reached for her and removed her jacket, then unzipped her pants, slipping my hand into her panties. She was warm and wet. I was thrilled to be in the moment, and with her. We groped and kissed and bit each other's bare behinds. I tasted her sweetness. Just as soon as I heard her moan, I heard a man's voice.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” said a male voice emanating from the kitchen.
“Up here,” Jessica yelled down as she bolted up, collected her suit, and frantically searched for her panties. “Just some last-minute details. I'll be right down. I'll meet you in the kitchen.”
“Panties? Here you go,” I said softly, offering them to her.
“You need to go. I'm sorry, I thought we had more time. House buyers can be eager beavers.”
“Real estate brokers have sexy beavers,” I said, licking my lips.
“Get dressed and slip out the back door,” she requested, business-mannered, while putting on her left shoe and straightening her collar. Jessica kissed my lips then popped some Tic Tacs into her mouth and raced downstairs.
I finished dressing, moved to the mirror, and smiled at myself with an air of fearless self-satisfaction. “Nobody could call me a mouseburger now,” I said while brushing my hair. “I like being 50.” Then my mature self looked me in the eye. Was being with Jessica still a sane experience—practically getting caught in someone's bed? In my own defense, I thought—we were actually in a bed and not a moving car —spontaneous with time constraints. Future events would reveal the sanity quotient.
On my way home I stopped off for some groceries. At the checkout line I impulsively tossed a bag of
Ruffles
cheddar potato chips into my basket. I chomped on chips the entire ride home, replaying the weekend's highlights in my head and smiling.
Back in my apartment, I took off my clothes and threw on sweat pants and a tank top. Checking my email, I saw Derrick thanked me for the weekend. Jessica wrote too, stating,
“You're my lucky charm. Within one hour we had two offers on the house. I'm bringing you to “help” me with all open houses.”
On
Facebook
I now had 268 friends. I'd never felt this popular or in demand in my entire life. In spite of reconnecting with Derrick, I was still skeptical about
Facebook
. What constituted a “friend”? Was it someone you met at an event and could now contact freely for future meetings and networking opportunities? Sure, someone will “friend” you on the Internet, but will they meet you face-to-face? Or pick you up from the airport? In L.A. airport-driving friends are highly regarded. You always return their phone calls and send holiday cards every year. Thanks to
Facebook
, I had a whole new world of people to keep up with, and who'd keep up with me. Most would never even meet me for a cup of coffee.
Fueled by my rockin' intimate life, I embraced my role as Yoda of love and sexpert diva with new vigor. Worlds away from thinking I had all of the answers, I knew I was on to something exciting and esteem-building. I just had to digest it all—and rest up from my weekend.
Writing flowed through me. I dashed off a snappy sidebar:
What Your Taste in Men Reveals About You
. My types were:
The Eternal Child
The Silent Type
The Rebel
“Ugly” Men
Macho Man
Men Who Won't Commit
Men Who Commit Too Soon
Just Like Your Father
The Winer Diner Chaser
Man Under Construction
Mr. Mirror
Mr. Stable
After finishing that article, I rewarded myself by watching a movie, with a snack. My choice was
Sleepless in Seattle
with a pint of Haagen Dazs, honey vanilla. You'd think I'd back off from ice cream, comfort food of rejection, especially since it packed on belly fat at a time when my nakedness was front and center. But old habits die hard, and still live in my freezer. I followed the film with a bubble bath. As much as I liked being in high demand over the weekend, I still liked being in my fortress of solitude, in the bottle city of Kandor.